


Second Degree

by annabeth



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, M/M, Murder, Otabek Altin Week, Prison AU, Violence, mentioned necrophilia, noncon (mentioned), otayuri - Freeform, wound fucking (mentioned)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-26 19:13:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12564288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabeth/pseuds/annabeth
Summary: Otabek reflects on what brought him to the place he is now: in prison with Yuri.





	Second Degree

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shadesofhades](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadesofhades/gifts).



> Written for the free day of Otabek Altin week on Tumblr, day seven. Also part of the prison AU universe created by me and shadesofhades.
> 
> Thanks to shadesofhades for the insight/beta.
> 
> Happy birthday, Beka!! :P

Heroin takes a lot out of a man. The crash after the high means that Otabek is nasty to everyone, volatile. He likes to spend those down hours in his cell as much as possible, curled around his bitter little kitten. Yura is the only person who never seems to aggravate the crash, and Otabek knows that being around other prisoners is just a recipe for solitary.

Everyone knows that Nikiforov will _visit_ guys in solitary. More than one newbie has come out of ashen-faced and trembling and swearing to anyone who will listen that he's cleaned up his act, no more fucking up.

Otabek has been in solitary, of course, before. He was in it a lot before Yura came to the prison. And he had his share of encounters with Nikiforov, but he taught that fancy pants guard that he wasn't going to just lie down and take it. Once, Otabek had dropped Nikiforov, pinned him, and anally raped him with his own nightstick—which was what that bastard guard liked to do to the guys in solitary.

The trouble was, Nikiforov, that fucking bastard with the beautiful face, laughed as Otabek did it; he _liked_ it. The guy is so royally crazy Otabek doesn't know how he's not on the inside with the rest of them, or how he passed the psych test. At least, Otabek thinks there has to be some kind of medical clearance required to be a prison guard, even if it's a terrible job.

But now that Yura's here, Otabek can't let himself be locked up alone. Yura would kill someone, and that wouldn't be ideal. It might not be unexpected, since he's inside for murder, but Otabek doesn't want Yura to draw too much attention. He's been in solitary once.

Nikiforov's eye was bloody and black and blue for two weeks.

Otabek isn't entirely sure who he's protecting, if he's being honest with himself. Either way, Yura's already sent more than his share of guys to the infirmary, and fuck it, but Otabek needs his sweet ass to keep his cock company.

"Beka," hisses Yura. He touches Otabek's thigh, and Otabek cracks an eye open. He's still in darkness, in a way. But that bright spot is definitely Yura. "You still fucked up?"

"Not really," Otabek answers. His eyelids feel so heavy, though. He just wants to pull Yura's head down on his chest and sleep. Can't, though. He has to be seen in his own bunk, with Yura in his. Sodomites or fags aren't really welcomed in here. The guards, the other guys, they know that shit goes down, but nobody likes to talk about it, and it's against the rules.

"You gonna sleep?" asks Yura. He rubs a little circle on Otabek's thigh; it aches. He focuses his bleary eyes on the spot—no wonder, Yura's bruised him. His Yura loves to prod at the injuries and marks he leaves behind.

"Yeah. Gimme a kiss, babydoll," Otabek says, and sighs with a happy relief when Yura's lips touch his. It's not a dirty kiss, just their lips meeting with a little pressure, and some gentle movement. "Gonna fuck you till you run dry," Otabek murmurs into Yura's ear when they part.

"Haven't yet," Yura says archly. He runs his fingertips up the indentations of Otabek's ribs, occasionally digging in a fingernail to get Otabek's attention. "Even with all that junk in your system, you haven't yet."

"Don't tempt me to do it now." Otabek flips the kitten off his lap and gets to his feet, achy and creaky at the joints. Too much time spent on the damn floor. He holds out a hand for the testy little kitten and pulls him up, then points to his bunk. "Go to bed. Don't mess with me tonight."

But Yura won't. He knows better than to fuck with Otabek right now. So Otabek probably won't wake up with warm lips wrapped around his cock.

Probably.

Yura climbs up to his bunk, and Otabek listens to the rustle of him shuffling around up there, his body settling its slight weight into the prison-issue mattress.

"Beka, tell me a bedtime story," Yura says, voice drowsy but still demanding. Otabek loves that Yura sometimes still acts like a fifteen-year-old boy and not a hardened criminal—or if not that, a sixteen-year-old (like that makes a lot of difference) kid with a temper ten times the size of his body and the violent, lithe grace to carry out all sorts of murderous mischief. Every once in awhile, when Otabek is riding downwind on the coattails of his high, he wants to let Yura slip his leash. Just wants to see what he'll do.

Someone would probably end up dead, but Otabek hates just about every fucker in here, anyway. That goddamn Japanese guy with the same name as Yura? He got caught in the act, and not just _any_ act, but fucking the warm, bloody flesh of a boy he'd just slain. Not just up the ass, either—no, Katsuki Yuuri had made a large, gaping wound in the kid's neck, and was _fucking the bloody hole_.

There are rumors that every time Yuuri goes to solitary, Viktor fucking Nikiforov is only a step behind to "visit" him. That the two of them have some kind of sick, inside-and-outside romantic affair. Otabek can't fathom wanting to be with a necrophiliac, or being able to call that a _romance_.

And Jean-Jacques Leroy, the Quebecois kid with only one line on his rap sheet, swears up and down he's innocent, but fuck, is he _annoying_. He seems to be a nervous talker, and he's _always_ fucking nervous. Which means he never shuts the fuck up.

When Otabek is high, he only wants Yura's kitteny voice in his ear. When he's down, he definitely doesn't want that fucker speaking to him. When he's jonesing, well… those times he's probably more tempted than Yura to slice and dice the stupid blue-eyed bastard.

Too bad he's beautiful. He's way more trouble than anyone with that kind of beauty should merit. And Otabek has seen the way he eyes Yura up and down, and he definitely doesn't like it. His little kitten might forget who he belongs to—not that Otabek would ever let him forget; no, the kitten would definitely be _reminded_.

The way he looks at Otabek, though, is all wide-eyed fear with plenty of attraction steeped in denial. Yeah, Yura's not allowed to look anywhere else, but Otabek does what he wants. If that fucking Jean-Jacques can just learn to shut his mouth—or find a better use for it—Otabek might be interested in taking that ass for a test drive.

And besides, they all claim to be innocent. No one of them is.

Yura's breathing turns heavy and slow, and Otabek can feel his own heart rate decreasing, his body slipping down the slope towards slumber. He lets himself drift, find the soft velvet of unconsciousness, and dreams.

++

"It's high quality, honest, this shit's the real fucking deal," the guy, Mickey or some shit, claimed with a sleazy smile. Otabek knew better than to trust some scumbag dealer, but God, was he dying for a hit. It'd been almost a week, and Otabek was drying out more with every day, but the withdrawal literally felt like his life was seeping away piece by piece.

He paid the dumbfuck and took the baggie. He went home to his high rise apartment where he lived with his parents, pissing away his trust fund on heroin and flushing his football scholarship down the toilet with every failed drug test.

Somehow, his parents hadn't figured that out yet. It wasn't like Otabek was trying very hard to hide it. He cut the H with his own credit card, neat perfect lines—he liked things orderly—and snorted it, somewhat heedless of how much he was putting into his body. The high was more peaked than usual, and almost instant. He wiped at the blood running from his nose and packed away his paraphernalia.

But it went bad fast. He started seeing that blond boy who broke up with him after weeks of blowjobs behind the school bleachers and in the boy's bathroom, with his clipped perfect haircut and pale green-blue eyes. He was everywhere, and at first Otabek thought it was just a simple case of stalking—until he started seeing him in impossibly weird places, like the bowl of the sink or plastered to his bedroom ceiling.

And it hurt: an itch he couldn't scratch, a pain he couldn't soothe, and with his last wits, he figured there'd been some bad shit mixed with the H he'd bought. So he stumbled down the high rise elevator, out into the street. When had night fallen?

Otabek followed the street lights, counting them and jumping at shadows. Once, the blond boy scared the hell out of him by popping out of an alley like a jack-in-the-box. Otabek had his knife out before he even thought about it.

The dumbfuck Mickey was in his usual haunt, skulking and probably waiting for more suckers. Just went to show that Otabek should have stayed with his regular dealer, but he was in juvie and Otabek hadn't been able to wait any longer.

"You sold me some fucked up shit," Otabek growled, stalking towards the dumbfuck. The guy did wonders for Otabek's ego by backing up, looking like he was going to shit himself with fear. That was when Otabek realized he was holding his knife out in front of him.

The guy's olive skin swum in Otabek's eyes, and he was staring into those traitorous blue-green eyes, at that pale skin—and Otabek was so _angry_ , how dare that stupid fuckboy dick him over like this? And he wanted to see that white filled in with red—he wasn't even seeing skin anymore, just white plaster that needed to be painted red, and he was the artist.

He came back to himself in an alley, covered in blood, the knife resting against his own wrist and red and blue lights flashing.

It didn't take long for the police to find him and cuff him. They led him away, and he could see the battered sack of human skin that used to be alive and breathing and not slashed to pretty horrendous ribbons.

Otabek felt… oddly nothing. The dumbfuck had it coming to him, didn't he? And it was only street justice.

They tried to make him dry out in jail cells and prison cells until his conviction and sentencing, but thank God for Mila. He brought the habit into the prison he was in now, and now he had his Yura to remind him what warmth felt like; human emotion besides rage and murderous irritation.

++

Otabek wakes up to a warm, solid weight on his chest. For a second he thinks it's his cat—the feline kind—but he's long gone, now; then he realizes it's still his kitten, anyway.

"You're gonna get us in shit," Otabek murmurs against soft, sleep-scented skin. Yura smells like warm human, a little sweaty, a little musky—a little bit like perfume. Otabek would love to know how he always smells like that to him, when they're locked up with no access to women and it's not like the prison is gonna hand out perfume.

"You were having the dream again," Yura replies without opening his eyes. He doesn't even seem to be awake; a rote answer given in the last vestiges of sleep before waking.

"Ah." Otabek keeps quiet after that. They've never really talked about what happened to Otabek. Yura knows he was a straight A student with a full ride to a prestigious university, but he doesn't know the whole story behind Otabek's downfall, from the bad high to the maniacal murder to the conviction.

Despite the fact that Yura really could get them in shit by lying on top of him, Otabek just starts stroking his hair. Yura mumbles something incoherent, and Otabek understands that tenderness isn't really a thing that belongs between them. No, sometimes he just wants that old himself back, the person before the heroin, who was capable of love and soft gestures.

But he's not that person anymore, and that's not the person that Yura wants, anyway. So as he pets his hair, he scrapes his nails along Yura's scalp.

"Mm, Beka," Yura says sleepily. "Someday you'll tell me, right?"

"Someday you'll know." Otabek yawns against the silky side of Yura's head. But that could be a lie—Otabek's not sure yet if he ever _will_ tell Yura the truth. Not because he thinks it would change anything between them, but because what's the point? The dream doesn't come all that often anymore, and besides, Otabek still isn't sorry.

He shoves Yura off of him as he hears the guard—Nikiforov, it sounds like—stomping down the cell block. No, he doesn't regret what he did. He can still remember the feeling of absolute loathing that had been flowing through his veins; can still taste the tacky copper of the dumbfuck's blood on his tongue.

Yura lands on the floor with a grunt and a furious curse. He immediately sits up, and his blond hair is a spiky mess from being dumped to the floor. Otabek wants to smile, but his skin is beginning to itch, his teeth beginning to ache a little from a combination of just… everything.

"Get the fuck up, numbskulls!" shouts Nikiforov. "Breakfast in ten fucking minutes, you sluggards."

"Fuck," Yura says, grimacing. "I didn't even get a chance to piss yet. How is it already almost time for that lousy shit they call food? Fuck, I wouldn't be surprised if they scraped it out of the shower drains."

"I'm gonna see you in the showers," Otabek says, and it's both a promise and a warning. Yura glares, flipping him off, then, quick as lightning before Nikiforov gets there, he's got the shiv tucked into the waistband of his underwear, in a tiny little pocket he's sewn there just for that purpose. Someday Otabek will ask Yura where he learned to sew, and Yura will dissemble about it, the same way that Otabek will never really tell the truth about his past. They both have their secrets, and they are legion—but none of that matters to them. They don't need to bare those parts of themselves to be what they are to each other.

"I'll be picking up the soap," Yura replies, and it's both a promise and a challenge. Otabek grins at him just before Nikiforov arrives at their cell. Yura's jumpsuit is buttoned over the handmade knife, and Otabek wonders who's gonna get it today.

Doesn't fucking matter. Maybe Otabek will let him kill someone today.

end.

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me (helm-puppet-trash) on [Tumblr](http://helm-puppet-trash.tumblr.com)!


End file.
